


Vice and Virtue

by sunflcwers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1812 Russia, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angel/Demon Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Banter, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Emotional Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Historical References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Porn with Feelings, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), War of 1812
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflcwers/pseuds/sunflcwers
Summary: “It’s okay, Aziraphale,” the demon murmurs, directing his gaze to the nervous quiver of the angel’s lips. “It’s just us here, remember?”Crowley takes his hand and squeezes it reassuringly. Moments like these aren’t foreign to them. A doting glance, a lingering touch. But they have always known when to stop. Tonight, though, he’s drunk— they both are. They could make excuses in the morning.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 168
Collections: Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange





	Vice and Virtue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phoenix_Soar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/gifts).



> This is my gift for Arvy (Phoenix_Soar / @RV_Phoenix_Soar on twitter), for the Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange ♡ Arvy, you're such a brilliant writer so I'm a bit nervous to post this.. but I also really hope you like it! It's a historical fic set in 1812 Russia, with banter, fluff, and smut. 
> 
> Thank you so much to Az (MrsCaulfield / @angelsnuffbox) and Stef (@flamingbentley) for hosting this event. And double thanks to Az who beta read this for me, ilysm.

There is a fine line, Crowley believes, between the concepts of human vice and virtue. As a demon, his views on morality have been skewed since the dawn of time but he does have a practical point. In many ways, both have simply been the outcome of humanity's search for happiness. A human's ideals have often led them to moments out of their control.

And that may very well be said about Nineteenth Century Russia — an intersection of the aristocratic, the depraved, and the bohemian. A land of vice and virtue, seemingly intertwined.

The autumn season is ending, with the chill September wind already reminding everyone just how relentless a Russian winter can be. By now, Napoleon and his Grande Armée have started preparing for their attempt to invade Moscow.

In another city, Crowley and Aziraphale have just stepped out of a midnight show. A theatrical production dripping with decadence and pleasure— something purposely shocking to the senses, especially for the likes of a particular angel. Crowley noticed his discomfort, as he always did, and offered that they walk to the nearby park instead.

“Oh, I hope they don’t mind that we left early,” the angel sighs nervously. “We didn’t even finish the first Act!”

“It'll be fine. We didn't even go here to watch some operatic concert,” the demon reassures, feeling already a little bit intoxicated. They each have a glass of alcohol in hand, something drinkable, with a few spots of absinthe for good measure. “You just wanted to come by for a few books here, didn't you?”

"Quite right,” he affirms, brightening up slightly at the thought. He does have a fondness for Russian Literature, and the depth with which a lot of their authors write. Crowley mentioned needing to stop by for a temptation, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to tag along. Yet, they have to admit that it is a rather inconvenient time to visit.

There's a war going on somewhere in Moscow, with soldiers setting up camp a few miles from Borodino Field. But none of it could be heard here in St. Petersburg. Not over the booming music of the opera.

“One day, they're going to write about the great heroes who fought in this," Crowley murmurs, raising the glass to his lips for another sip. "You'd think you can only gain things like honor and legacy through battle.”

“What a rose-tinted view of destruction, my dear.”

“Well, they do tend to romanticize that sort of thing. It's a very human thing to do,” he drawls. 

Aziraphale nods solemnly. “They'll learn from it after, only in retrospect.”

“We're not all that different then, it seems.”

They make their way to a nearby bridge, with Haymarket Square already visible from a distance. The demon takes a moment to look off into the canal, humming softly to a song that played earlier during the show and drunkenly swaying along to the tune. 

“You're a horrible dancer, you know,” the blond remarks, clear fondness in his tone.

Crowley stops in his tracks, raising a brow at the other. “Really now? You say that, while the only dance you're interested in learning is the _Gavotte_.”

“Well, I could try to waltz,” he huffs, trying out the initial pose confidently but accidentally spilling some of his drink as a result.

“Pft. Not while you're inebriated like this, angel,” he retorts, a smug smile on his lips. Swiftly, he takes both their wine glasses and places them on the bridge railing. 

Aziraphale grimaces. A little, petulant pout. “You're no fun.”

“Fun?” he exclaims, but there is a warm laugh to it anyway. “I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“There’s no one else here but us, my dear.” 

Just as he speaks, Aziraphale feels a cool gust of wind sweep by between them, causing him to stumble just a bit closer to the demon. He was right; the streets are practically deserted. No one here but the two of them. _Like it always has been, like it always will be._ Out of pure impulse, the angel reaches over to lift up the other’s sunglasses. It’s past midnight, after all, with only moonlight and a few street lamps illuminating this apparent ghost town; there's no need to hide. 

While he shouldn’t admit it, Aziraphale is secretly captivated by his eyes. He should be afraid. He should find them evil, and corrupt, and menacing. But how could he? They’re the colour of brilliant liquid gold. Of those luxurious mosaics in Roman cathedrals, and the grand sculptures made for ancient pagan gods— encapsulating the divinity that the demon is so sure he lost.

Crowley makes a soft sound, a little _“ngk”_ that breaks his train of thought. 

“Ah. I’m sorry, dear boy,” he whispers, letting go of the glasses. But he freezes when he notices the lack of space between them, the faint brush of his fingers against the other’s cheek making his breath hitch.

“It’s okay, Aziraphale,” the demon murmurs, directing his gaze to the nervous quiver of the angel’s lips. “It’s just us here, remember?” Crowley takes his hand and squeezes it reassuringly. Moments like these aren’t foreign to them. A doting glance, a lingering touch. But they have always known when to stop. Tonight, though, he’s drunk— they both are. They could make excuses in the morning. 

Driven by instinct, Crowley turns his head and presses the softest kiss to the other’s palm. _(Hush, it's late. No one will see.)_ Here he is, still desperately crawling his way up to catch a glimpse of heaven again.

Now, there must have been some kind of seasonal transference. A divine shift in the atmosphere. Because, by some miracle, it begins to snow. 

Crowley can hear his companion gasp, but he dares not look. Not after baring his heart like this. A part of him is certain Aziraphale will flinch away at any moment. That he will step back and tell him this isn’t allowed. 

Instead, he feels the angel’s fingers caress his cheek once more. “My dear. Please look at me.”

The touch makes him jolt, as he's not entirely sure of what it means. He dreads it may be out of pity. "Sorry," he mutters. It’s a subconscious response, borne out of his fear of overstepping. 

“Don't be,” Aziraphale says quickly, but then his voice softens. “I have, in fact, been thinking about it. Kissing you, I mean.”

Oh.

“ _What?_ ” Crowley splutters, finally looking up.

“For quite a while now, honestly,” he continues his confession, cheeks flaming.

“Me, too.” The words leave his lips abruptly, in an odd mixture of confused and resolute.

Aziraphale ponders for a moment. He could draw back, if he wants to. He knows Crowley will respect his decision, and they can consider this a blip and never speak of it again. Though that isn’t what he wants at all. So he takes a step closer. “Kiss me.”

Crowley sobers up at once. He nods dumbly, hands moving of their own accord as they reach over to cup the angel’s cheeks. The other leans into the touch without any hesitation. It starts off as a gentle peck on the corner of his mouth, but then the angel tugs him by the collar and their lips slot together perfectly _(Crowley swears there are sparks at first contact)_.

His lips are soft and taste like sweet wine. The angel makes a small noise when Crowley licks into the seam of his mouth, before biting softly on his bottom lip. 

(Kissing Aziraphale feels like a revelation. Like he finally understands the point of the universe, and that _point_ is right here, in his arms.) 

It is ten degrees of frost out but nothing could detract him from the warmth of the angel's mouth against his own. The tentative swipe of their tongues against each other only propelling him to deepen the kiss. Gentle at first, then desperate and hungry for more. 

No, he doesn't feel cold at all. Rather, everything feels searing hot _(a spark and then an explosion)_. Aziraphale's body is pressed against his own, hands grasping at the fabric of his coat. As if silently pleading for him to take the blasted thing off—

_Fuck._

Crowley pulls away, catching his breath as he attempts to form a coherent thought. But then his eyes glance down at the other's lips (plump, and swollen, and perfect) and he fails miserably. He is seized by lust, and leans back in to plant wet, open-mouthed kisses over the curve of the other's neck.

The angel shudders in response, tilting his head and begging for more. "Where are you staying?" 

"Nngh. Just booked a room at an inn for a few days." 

"Take me there, dearest," whispers Aziraphale, lips pressed oh so gently on his earlobe. They both know what those words imply.

Crowley feels like he's about to combust. "Of course, angel," he rasps, mind still reeling from the kiss. Without another word, he snaps his fingers and they're in the room in an instant. 

It isn't a shabby place at all, and Aziraphale supposes it has to do with a bit of demonic intervention. Instead, it looks like a grand suite, with large windows covered in frost and a rustic fireplace, newly lit with a few flames beginning to crackle. In the center, a king sized bed waits just for them. Crowley pushes him flushed against the wall, focused entirely on resuming what they’ve already started. 

“My dear, you didn't have to _renovate_.” 

He laughs against his lips. “Was thinking what kind of room you would like best, s'all. Especially since I'm about to take away your innocence, angel.”

“Scoundrel,” he retorts, all while frantically unbuttoning the other's dress shirt. His hand slides down his bare chest right after, thumb caressing the coarse hair. 

Crowley sees it— all of Aziraphale’s pent up desire rising to the surface. He's seen this look before, countless times; he saw it in Rome, when they dined on oysters together, and in the Bastille, when his eyes raked over him in that dim prison cell. This desire has always washed over his face quickly, in subtle waves. There one second and gone the next. Now, he feels like he's being submerged in it completely.

A dastardly grin appears on the demon's lips. “Oh, _yes_. A scoundrel. One hundred percent.”

They finally make it to the bed somehow, slipping out of each layer of clothing along the way. Crowley doesn’t miss the opportunity to kiss every inch of his exposed skin in the process. 

“I’ve wanted you for so long, angel,” he professes, removing his sunglasses and tossing them at the bedside table without a care if he would miss. There are more important things at hand— like how perfect the blond looks laid out beneath him like this. They’re so close now, and for a split second he wonders whether this is all real. “You’re certain about this, right? That you.. want me, too.”

Aziraphale gazes at him earnestly, mouth quirked into an affectionate smile. “Make love to me, Crowley.”

He mirrors the smile, and seals it with a kiss.

There's a war going on somewhere in Moscow. A loud, boisterous opera down a few blocks in St. Petersburg. But none of it could be heard here, not over the delicious cries escaping the angel's lips. Not over the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin as the demon pounds into him, with deeper, quickening thrusts. It must be profane; it must be utterly blasphemous. But it doesn't matter to Crowley one bit. Not with Aziraphale looking up at him with reverence, like he is some sort of god.

"Tell me what you want, angel," he asks, chest heaving. His fingers wrap around the other’s cock, pumping it in smooth strokes. "I'll give you whatever you want."

“You.”

He chuckles, lips pressed against his forehead. “I know, but how do you want me?”

“Against— against the window,” Aziraphale sobs, writhing underneath him.

So they do, after they have their way with each other in bed. The blond, with his hands pressed against the cold glass of the window pane, bent over just for him. All pretty and ready for the taking. Crowley takes a moment to admire his body. So soft and delectable. 

“You're gorgeous, dove,” he drawls, fingers grazing the skin of his thigh before gripping the swell of his ass. 

Aziraphale whimpers, body trembling in anticipation. _"_ Please. Oh, please, Crowley!” 

“Please what?”

_“I need you, darling.”_

That's all it takes for Crowley to lose control once again. He fucks into him deeper this time, allowing himself to relish in the pleasure of it all. Warm tingling sensations coursing through his veins, down to his very core. 

“You’re beautiful,” he chokes out a moan in between praises, all while riding out another orgasm. “Y’feel so good, Aziraphale. So fucking amazing.”

The demon leans in a moment after, chest pressed to the angel’s back as they share another searing kiss.

* * *

Hours later, they collapse back on the soft mattress. Fully sated and in complete bliss. Aziraphale tucks himself into Crowley’s embrace and, for a moment, they rest together in comfortable silence. 

That is, until Crowley speaks up.

“Angel. What I said earlier, about taking your innocence,” he begins, uncertain. “I was teasing, of course. But did you ever… with any humans?”

Aziraphale looks at him with wide eyes, before shaking his head furiously. “Ah, no. No, you're the first.”

_(The first, the last, the everything-in-between, if you'd let me.)_

Crowley visibly relaxes, grinning against his hair. “Yeah, me neither. I know my lot can be ravenous. Purveyors of lust, or whatever. But I've never. Wasn't really interested in the notion until a certain angel tried to tempt me.”

“Tempt you?”

“Wasn't even for sex. Just, y'know, oysters.”

A coy smile curves on Aziraphale’s lips. “Foul fiend.”

“Definitely,” he replies with a playful smirk.

“And a complete scoundrel.”

“Only for you, angel.”

They both laugh, and settle back into each other’s arms.

“I'd like to think that someday, we can wine and dine, and do all this without worrying about our respective sides,” Aziraphale mumbles against the crook of Crowley's neck. It's a daydream, of course. Something too vulnerable. Too honest. For now, those chances are slim to none. 

We're on our side, Crowley wants to say. But he keeps the words to himself. All he wants to do right now is bask in the moment, without worrying about what tomorrow will bring.

“One day, perhaps,” the demon says instead, kissing the other's temple. 

“We'll find a way," the angel yawns, fluttering his eyes shut as slumber takes a hold of him. "We always do, my darling.”

This time, it sounds less like mere wishful thinking, and more like a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos are also greatly appreciated.
> 
> Twitter: @starrysheen


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